


All Eight Chapters

by HugeAlienPie



Series: Simon vs. the Outside World [1]
Category: Love Simon (2018), Simonverse | Creekwood Series - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Characters Reading Fanfiction, Coming Out, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Food, M/M, Other, POV First Person, Pre-Blue (Creekwood) Identity Reveal, Pre-Relationship, Thanksgiving, Trope Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21582337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: Simon agrees to be Leah's fake boyfriend at her family Thanksgiving to show up an overachieving cousin. It sounds ridiculous to Simon, but what can it hurt, right?Right?
Relationships: Bram Greenfeld/Simon Spier, Leah Burke & Simon Spier
Series: Simon vs. the Outside World [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555600
Comments: 19
Kudos: 189





	All Eight Chapters

**Author's Note:**

> As with all my Simon stories, this one blends elements of character and plot from _SVtHSA, LOTO_ , and _Love, Simon_. Anything goes in this brain!
> 
> Content note: lots of food

"Hey, Si," Leah says halfway through lunch, "your family isn't doing anything for Thanksgiving this year, right?"

It's a weird question. I look up and make eye contact with Cute Bram Greenfeld, who shrugs like _How would I know? It's your family._ Bram doesn't say much, but I have this theory that he's really funny inside his head.

"What's the matter, Spier?" Garrett puts in from his usual spot next to Bram. "Your family hate turkey? Or America?"

I shrug and pop a fry into my mouth. Ugh. Soggy. "My sister read this book about the real history of the first Thanksgiving. Smallpox blankets, forced conversion. She's refusing to participate in the holiday. And she's the one who cooks."

Garrett makes a face like I've told him Santa Claus kicks puppies, but Bram nods. "Cool," he says. Then he switches to making that terrible, irresistible puppy-dog face at my fries.

I sigh and push the little boat of them to him. "Enjoy," I say. 

"Walk with me, Spier," Leah says. We dump our trash in the bins by the door and loiter in the hallway outside the cafeteria. "Do you remember me talking about my cousin Winnie?"

Leah’s immediate family is just her and her mom, but she has a huge extended family. And, yeah, sure, one of them might be named Winnie. “I maybe remember you saying she exists,” I say. 

"Well, she's the cousin—second cousin? third?—anyway, she's the girl who's closest to me in age, and in middle school we got kind of... competitive?"

My eyes bug out. Leah Burke, Queen of the No Fucks Given, is _competitive_ about something? A grin starts to take over my face, and I don't try to stop it.

Leah punches my arm. It hurts. I forget how strong she is. "It's mostly our moms competing with each other by proxy. And maybe a little left over from when we were younger."

I'm grinning like a loon. "No, I get it. Keep talking."

"Winnie's, like, _super_ good at _everything_. Her part of the family is coming to our house for Thanksgiving, and I _know_ her mom—Aunt Coral—will spend the day bragging about the awards Winnie's won, and the incredible grades she's getting, and the super-prestigious colleges she's applying to, and it'll be _exhausting_."

"Her mom?"

Leah groans. "Winnie's too _humble_ to brag about herself."

I laugh. Loudly. I rarely get to see Leah so ruffled.

" _Anyway,_ " Leah says, glaring at me until I simmer down, "I know I'm hardly the model teenager. Which would be fine if I were better at... being bad." She sighs. "I just want to beat Winnie at _something_."

I nod. I feel that way sometimes. I mean, Alice is good at everything she's ever tried, _and_ everybody likes her. Nora has almost master-chef-level cooking skills. Me? I'm just Simon. Super ordinary middle kid. My grades aren't noteworthy in either direction. I'm not an athlete or an artist or a troublemaker or extra nice or mean or popular or isolated. Drama is my only extracurricular, and I've been cast as Fagin's Boy #3 in Creekwood High's fall production of _Oliver!_ , so I reeeeeally doubt I'm Broadway-bound.

My only claim to fame is that I'm gay. And I'm not even good at that, because in all the world, only two other people know. And only one of those was my choice.

Ugh. Maybe _I'm_ the one who needs something to be good at. "Okay," I say, "now tell me what this has to do with my family not celebrating Thanksgiving." 

Leah takes a deep breath, like she's steeling herself. "Okay, so, the one thing—like, the _only_ thing—Winnie's not good at is dating. Like, seriously, whenever someone asks her about relationships—and my nosy-ass relatives ask _all the time_ —she claims she's just broken up with someone. I don't know if that's true, but she's always single."

I gawp. " _You're_ always single!"

Leah tosses her hair in an un-Leahlike way. "Because _I_ don't care. Winnie does—or maybe she doesn't, but Aunt Coral definitely does. And so I thought, if I bring a boyfriend to Thanksgiving..." Her voice trails off, and she bites her lip. "What do you think?"

"What do I think?" The gears in my head are cranking (rustily, my dad would joke). "I think it's the greatest idea you've ever had!"

Leah's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yeah, totally." I rub my hands together ( _not_ villainously. Maybe a little villainously). "Okay, so, what are you into? Athletes? Musicians? I've never played matchmaker." (Martin Addison _does not count_ , because I'm not _doing_ what he wants me to—not that I'll ever tell him that.) "But it's not even Halloween yet. Plenty of time to find you someone."

"What? Simon, no." Leah's laughing, but she looks horrified. "I don't want a real boyfriend by Thanksgiving."

I frown. "You don't?"

" _No_." She gestures toward the cafeteria door, which is spitting out a steady stream of our classmates. "Would I date these bozos?"

I frown harder. It's true I'm having trouble picturing Leah dating a high school guy. "Okay, then, what _do_ you want?"

"I want a fake boyfriend _on_ Thanksgiving."

Okay, now I get it. And it's weird. I mean, stranger things have happened. Stranger things have happened _to me_. But not by much. "Huh," I say.

"Yeah," Leah replies. "So, you in?"

" _Me_?"

"Simon!" Her voice does that spike that means she's frustrated with me. "Who else?"

"Oh, let me see, how about... _anyone_?" Anyone less gay, for starters.

"I want it to be you, Simon. I trust you."

Okay, wow, just kick me in the junk next time, Leah.

"Won't your mom think it's weird? I mean, we've been best friends for forever. Won't she wonder why we're suddenly dating seriously enough for you to be bringing me to Thanksgiving dinner?"

"That's the beauty of choosing you. We've known each other for so long that dating won't feel new. We'll be how we've always been. Just with... kissing."

I swallow. Kissing. Leah. Riiiight.

"Plus," Leah continues relentlessly, "if I tell her today that we've started dating, then by Thanksgiving it'll make perfect sense for you to be there."

Leah's mom has known me for a long time. I'm not convinced I'll be able to sell her on the idea that Leah and I are suddenly in love. Maybe I can look at it as a way to become a better actor. _And_ to see competitive!Leah in action. "All right," I say, "I'm in."

I hold out my hand to shake on it. Leah laughs and pulls me in for a hug. Oh, yeah. If we're "dating," I should get used to more physical affection from her. She gives good hugs, so that's something.

*

As soon as I get home, I shout a half-assed hello to my parents, and before I do anything else, I pull out my phone and send an email.

**FROM:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**TO:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Oct 20 at 4:08 PM  
**SUBJECT:** Thanksgiving fake dating

_Blue,_

_Today my best friend—my female best friend—my straight, female, best friend—asked me to come to her family Thanksgiving dinner and be her fake boyfriend to show up a cousin who's good at everything. I promise you front-row seats of events as they unfold._

_-Jacques_

Blue and I have been emailing since the beginning of the school year, and I feel like I know him as well as anyone else in my life. I don't know his name or what he looks like. But I know _him._

He's a junior at Creekwood, like me. He's gay, like me. He loves Oreos. Is half Jewish. Uses the English language better than a lot of published authors. Reading his emails is like reading the best-written book I've been assigned in English class. But _better_ , because I _care_ about what Blue's writing. It's only been a month and a half months of emails, but I'm half in love with this guy. Maybe. Is it possible to fall in love over email?

I put away my phone and start my trig (ugh). I am going to do homework, walk Bieber, and not think about—

My phone dings, and I look without thinking. It's an email from Blue. I've finished less than half of my trig problem set. I open the email anyway.

Remember how I said that Blue is an amazing writer? It's one of the things I love most about him. But sometimes he's just funny.

**FROM:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**TO:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Oct 20 at 4:53 PM  
**SUBJECT:** RE: Thanksgiving fake dating

 _I'll make popcorn_.

_-Blue_

I can't help it. I grin for the rest of the night.

*

Abby's giving me a funny look when I get to our shared English class the next day. Like this is really science class, and I'm the bug.

"What's on my face?" I ask, trying to wipe it off.

She does this sighing half-laugh that I translate as _Lord these white boys_. Then she says, "So you're the new boyfriend."

I swear my jaw literally hits the freaking floor. I grab Abby's arm. " _What_?" I hiss. "What are you—how do you know that?"

Abby's perfect eyebrows pinch together. "Leah told me," she says slowly, like she doesn't know how it's a question.

"She told you?"

From a couple rows over, Cute Bram gives me a concerned look. And that feels nice, but I wave him off. Like, _just a gay boy having a hetero panic. Nothing to see here; move along._

"Yes, Simon," Abby says in that same overly patient voice, "she told me. Because we're _friends_. And friends tell each other things."

"Yeah, okay, but—" Abby and Leah have runn hot and cold on each other since the day Abby moved to town. I'd thought they were cold this week, but if they're hot, I won't argue. "We're not letting it get around."

"Why?" Abby asks. "I mean, if it's not real..."

Coming out to Abby would be so easy. Like, she's sitting here next to me, and she really is a freaking Disney princess. And it's not like I want to be in the closet forever. I could tell her that I'm gay and that I don't want Leah caught up in that later. (Whenever I come out, people will rethink every girl I ever dated. I don't want Leah to be one of them. Especially since we're not _actually_ dating.) Abby would get it. Or at least wouldn't be awful about it. I open my mouth, but the words get stuck in my throat.

"Oh my god," Abby hisses. "Is there someone else?"

"What? No! I—well—" Blue and I have never met in person. I don't know who he is. If he thinks about me the way I think about him or just sees me as a friend. I think of him anyway.

"Simon," Abby says, suddenly way more serious than this conversation deserves, "if you're into another girl, you should tell Leah."

"Why? I can fake-date Leah even if—"

" _Tell. Her."_

I grit my teeth. "There's no other girl, Abby. I swear." I shove my glasses up my nose and turn my attention to the front of the room as Mr. Wise freaking _finally_ comes in and starts class. I don't feel guilty about misleading Abby. Sometimes, other people's assumptions work in my favor.

The interaction leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth. At lunch, I go outside where I can get reception on my phone.

**FROM:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**TO:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Oct 21 at 12:12 PM  
**SUBJECT:** RE: Thanksgiving fake dating

_Blue,_

_One of my fake girlfriend's friends spent the morning grilling me about my intentions for this fake relationship. She told me that if I'm "into another girl," I have to tell Fake Girlfriend. Why? Why do I owe her that? Why do I owe anyone that?_

_There's no girl, of course. I hate that everyone makes that assumption by default. Like, why couldn't she even say "another girl or guy"? Why will people keep assuming I like girls until I make a big production out of saying I'm into guys?_

_-Jacques_

I see Blue's response when I'm home for the night, and it makes me smile. 

**FROM:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**TO:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Oct 21 at 3:48 PM  
**SUBJECT:** RE: Thanksgiving fake dating

_Jacques,_

_I don't know what to tell you. Maybe Fake Girlfriend's friend thinks that you might start for-real dating some other girl and then everyone would know you're not dating FG?_

_Are you okay? I feel like this situation has gotten more complicated than you expected._

_I hate that assumption, too. I hate that people make all sorts of assumptions about you (impersonal you) based on their lives._

_I mean me. I hate when people make assumptions about **me** based on **their** lives. I wish I knew how to fix it, but at least you and I can promise to do better._

_So, Jacques: I promise I will never assume you like girls._

_-Blue_

I laugh and immediately send a reply.

**FROM:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**TO:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Oct 21 at 4:19 PM  
**SUBJECT:** RE: Thanksgiving fake dating

_Thanks, Blue. Same to you._

_-J_

I go on with my day feeling better about everything. Blue has that effect on me.

*

Things run smoother after that. For a while, Abby tries to get me and Leah to "be more PDA-y in public" to sell the ruse, but after some half-assed excuses from me and glares from Leah, she backs off. Blue continues to be the high point in my life. I hate that I can’t tell anyone about him. My parents are my parents; Nora is Nora; Bieber is Bieber.

Martin Addison continues to exist. I can't do anything about that.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving Leah sits down next to me, smacking a scrapbook down so hard half the people around us jump. Not that there are that many; the soccer players are away at some event today, so the lunch table’s pretty empty. "Simon," Leah says, "it's time to study."

I blink blankly at her. "Study what?" Leah and I only have two classes together. I can't remember any tests coming up in either of them.

Leah flips open the scrapbook with a flourish. "Us."

Leah starts flipping through the book. It's the story of Leah&Simon. (Would our ship name be Lemon?) How we met, how our connection developed, how we fell in love. It kinda freaks me out. It's our lives, but… framed, I guess. Almost cut, like a movie. Everything in it is true. But Leah's used special frames and stickers that make things look romantic that weren't. And she's put stuff out of order so it looks like things led to other things in a "budding romance" way (my dad's phrase. He uses it a lot when we watch _The Bachelor_ ).

"This is... really something," I tell her. Which is true.

Leah shrugs in that way she does when she's proud of what she's done but doesn't want anyone to know she cares. "Winnie and her mom are super perfectionists. If anything about our story is off, they'll pounce."

This suddenly seems like a way bigger deal than I'd realized. I hope I don't let Leah down.

"At least the dates will be easy to remember," Leah continues, "because I used the real dates that things happened to us." She gives me a look out of the corner of her eye. "Except when we started dating, obviously."

"Oh, right, obviously." I nod enthusiastically, not about to tell her I don't remember those "big milestone" days like when we met or when we declared ourselves best friends. I flip ahead to see when she claims we had started dating. I'm relieved that it's only a couple weeks before the day she asked me to do this. I'm not sure what I would've done if she'd said we've been together for years.

"Okay," Leah says, taking the scrapbook out of my hand and flipping to the beginning, "Let's study."

*

I come home exhausted. Studying the scrapbook with Leah felt like an extra class, and my brain is _fried_.

Mom's in the living room, working on case notes. Which I don't think she's supposed to do at home, but whatever. As soon as I walk past the doorway, she calls me into the room. Like a chump, I go.

I don't look at Mom's face until I'm sitting next to her, which is a mistake. Her face says _I'm not mad; I just want to talk._ Which absolutely means she's mad. I wrack my brain, but for once I can't think of a single thing I've done that would make her mad. 

"Welcome home, Simon," Mom says, giving me a one-armed side hugs. I relax into it a little—a risky move, but I don't care. Mom's hugs are great. Even the side ones. "How was your day?"

I shrug. "Long." Which may get her to leave me alone, and has the benefit of being true.

Mom nods. "I bet." She leans back on the couch and looks at me. "I ran into Jessica Keane today."

I wince. _Now_ I know what I've done wrong. Like the guy says in that old movie my parents love, I fell victim to one of the classic blunders: I forgot that parents have lives outside of being parents. My mom and Leah's mom are friends. They get together when they can, and even when they can't, Shady Creek is small enough for them to bump into each other.

So today they saw each other, and Ms. Keane said something about how... happy? surprised? confused? she is that Leah and I are dating. And then Mom would've had to admit that this was the first she was hearing about it. Knowing Mom, she spent the afternoon trying to figure out why I haven't told her.

I should keep up the ruse. If Mom knows that Leah and I aren't dating, she might tell Ms. Keane, who'd either make Leah stop or give something away in front of Winnie and her mom. I want this to go well for Leah, and I hate being the one who's maybe messing it up. But I hate lying to my parents more.

I tell her almost everything: Winnie and her mom; Leah's competitiveness; our deal; Leah's scrapbook. I only leave out that I'm gay. I'm not ready to talk about that.

Mom's quiet for a long time when I'm done. Then she says, "I don't like it." Which doesn't surprise me. Mom's a big fan of honesty. Pretending to be in a relationship to pull the wool over someone's eyes is _not_ up her alley. I hold my tongue and wait. " _But_ ," she continues, "I do think your heart's in the right place. I'll leave it up to Leah's conscience to decide whether this is a good idea."

I nod. "Thanks, Mom." It's better than I'd been expecting. But I should warn Leah that Mom will want to have A Talk with her before Thanksgiving.

I don't get off the couch right away. Knowing Mom, she has something to add, something that will seem weird when she says it but will feel smart when I look back at it. Sure enough, she adds, "Make sure you and Leah are talking, and that you're on the same page. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

**FROM:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**TO:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Nov 13 at 4:03 PM  
**SUBJECT:** The wisdom(?) of mom

_Blue,_

_My mom found out about the fake dating. She **really** wanted to make sure FG and I are talking. Says she doesn't want anyone getting hurt. What does she know that I don't? _

_-Jacques_

**FROM:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**TO:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Nov 13 at 4:29 PM  
**SUBJECT:** Re: The wisdom(?) of mom

_Jacques,_

_Everything and nothing._

_-Blue_

*

I spend a surprisingly long time dithering over my outfit on Thanksgiving Day. I never tried hard to impress the girls I've dated, or their families. Which is probably part of why we're not dating anymore. The other part being the really _staggering_ amounts of gay I am. 

Finally I'm ringing Leah's doorbell with a bouquet of flowers for her, one for Ms. Keane, a bag of tortilla chips, and a bowl of taco dip that Nora made, even though Leah told me repeatedly not to bring food, because Mom literally would not let me walk out the door empty-handed.

Leah opens the door, thank god. She looks nice today: skinny jeans artfully covered with wildly colored patches, a dark green shirt and her usual denim jacket, red hair piled on top of her head in some fancy, gravity-defying way I don't understand. 

"Hey," I say. I hold out one of the bouquets. "These are for you."

"Aww, thanks, Si," she says.

If we were dating, one of us would go in for a kiss, right? I lean toward her cheek, to be on the safe side. Leah startles and jerks back, then overcorrects and slams her face into my nose.

"Ow."

Leah laughs nervously. "We should've practiced that more, huh?"

For the past couple weeks, Leah's been drilling me relentlessly about the stuff in the scrapbook. But we haven't practiced the physical affection stuff, like kissing or holding hands, because Leah decreed it "too weird" and insisted that we're comfortable enough around each other that "it'll come naturally."

It does _not_ come naturally. It's a good thing Leah hates PDA. If we had to actually kiss, someone would end up with a broken nose.

"That's good," I offer. "We can use that."

"Sure," Leah says, laughing ruefully. "Let's just say it happened six weeks ago, right?"

Leah takes my hand and hauls me into the house. It's crammed to the gills with relatives, which is so weird because usually it's just Leah and her mom. She throws out names and relationships as we go. I forget like three-quarters of it the instant she's done talking. It's not like I'll see most of these people again. Leah has a plan for us to "break up" by Christmas.

Leah drags me into the kitchen to drop off my taco dip ("I'm mad about the taco dip. I told you not to bring food." "Have you _met_ my mom? Or Nora?"), squeezing it into the corner of the overflowing counter. Ms. Keane spots us immediately. "Simon!" she says, _way_ more excited to see me than she usually is. She sweeps me into an unexpected hug. "Oh, let me look at the two of you together!"

" _Mom_ ," Leah says. Her tone of voice says she's put out by it, but she blushes, takes my hand, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, Leah Burke code for _secretly pleased_.

"Oh, let your mother fuss for once, Leah," Ms. Keane says. Leah, in the weirdest turn of events so far, looks ready to let her.

"Oh, Jess, leave them be," says a guy walking past with his hands full of potatoes. "Hey, Leah."

"Hey, Uncle Eddie. Happy Thanksgiving."

Uncle Eddie (whoever that is) kisses Leah on the cheek and jerks his head toward the basement door. "Kids're in the basement, if you don't want to hang out with us old fogeys."

Leah laughs. I've never seen this side of her. "Thanks, Uncle Eddie."

It takes a while, because Leah has to say hi to every relative we pass and introduce me to at least half of them ( _crap_ ), but eventually we make it to the basement. A _lot_ of kids have crammed in down there. Four roughly our age are playing what looks like a vicious poker game in the corner. Two twelveish-year-olds are putting together a jigsaw puzzle off to the side. A clump of five are watching two others playing some video game. When I glance out the sliding glass door of the walk-out, I see three younger ones chasing each other around the yard.

"Guys, this is Simon," Leah says, dropping onto an empty spot on the couch and clearly expecting me to squeeze into the half-a-butt-cheek's worth of space that's left. I grit my teeth and get cozy. A half-hearted chorus of greetings rise up as I wriggle in. The only good place for my arm is around Leah's shoulders, so I put it there and hope for the best. Leah snuggles right in. Good thing we're touchy friends. This won't be anywhere near as awful as the kiss.

My other hand pats my pocket, where my phone is sitting. Blue is doing Thanksgiving in Savannah with his father's family. Neither of us will be around for the other as much as we'd like, but we've promised to keep our phones on us at all times and check them as often as possible. Holidays are rough, and we're not letting each other go through them alone.

"Winnie still winning?" Leah asks.

"Yeah," a bunch of the watchers reply. It takes me a few minutes to figure out which character is winning and then which player goes with that character, but when I work it out, here it is. My first glimpse of the infamous Winnie.

Winnie is small-framed and on the short side, with straight, shoulder-length, mousy blond hair and thin wire-framed glasses. She's wearing a dark blue cardigan over a light blue flower-print dress that goes almost to the floor. She looks like she's got a lot of priorities, and what anyone thinks of the way she looks isn't one of them. 

One of the guys from the poker game looks up. "Hey, Leah," he says, "Aunt Coral tell you about Winnie's new thing?" His voice is mocking. I can't tell if it's aimed at Leah or Winnie.

Leah rolls her eyes. "Which new thing? The poetry collection or the regional tennis meet?"

"Oh, no," the guy says, sharper, "this is a _new_ new thing."

"Winnie?" Leah demands, arms crossed, tone challenging.

Winnie shrugs, and her eyes never leave the screen. "It's nothing," she says, clipped.

"Aw, come on," Poker-Guy wheedles. "Tell us about your big accomplishment, Winnie-Mini." I make a mental note to steer way clear of this douchecanoe.

Winnie takes her hand off the controller long enough to shove her glasses up her nose. Then she reclaims her death-grip on the plastic. "I've been appointed to the Governor's Task Force on Rural and Suburban Youth."

Leah's lips press together, and she withdraws into herself. "Of course you have," she says tightly. "Congratulations," she adds, in a tone that exactly conveys _fuck you forever_.

Winnie rolls her eyes but doesn't loosen her grip on the controller. "We meet two times a year and write a lot of emails in-between. It's no big deal."

One of the other poker players hoots with laughter. "Say that to Aunt Coral. I dare you!"

Leah, the poker players, and one of the video-game watchers burst out laughing. One of the jigsaw puzzle kids grins.

Winnie shuts down. I don't think I've ever seen someone not be there that quickly. The other guy plays on, not seeming to notice that his opponent is basically catatonic.

I risk leaning over and touching Winnie's arm. She flinches, and Leah glares at me, but Winnie looks up and blinks, and seems present again. "Is your mom being awful?" I ask quietly.

Winnie sighs and nods. "I can never just _do_ anything, you know? Everything has to be the! biggest! deal!"

I laugh. "Yeah. I do know." The difference between Winnie and me is that she's doing things that _are_ a big deal. My parents reach that level of excitement over the most mundane things. I start drinking coffee: It's a Big Deal! Alice _stops_ drinking coffee: It's a Big Deal! Nora switches from choir to band: It's a Big Deal! We Spier siblings are notorious underachievers, and it may be because we don't want to see what our parents would do if we did something actually noteworthy. "Have you talked to her about it?" Not that that's ever worked for me.

Winnie's eyes narrow. "Who are you?"

"This is Simon," Leah says before I can reply. She squeezes my hand and gives me a death-glare that Winnie can't see. "My boyfriend."

Winnie looks at me, then Leah, then me. "You have a boyfriend," she says carefully.

"I do," Leah replies. She sounds like a hedgehog looks. I don't blame her. I'm a little insulted on her behalf.

"And this is him."

Now I'm insulted on my _own_ behalf.

For a second I think Winnie's going to win this round. Not only does she not look defeated by Leah's relationship status, she looks skeptical. She may have figured us out already.

Then Winnie stands, throws her controller at one of the people who've been watching the game, and stalks out of the room with a muttered, "I'm going to find my mom."

As soon as the door at the top of the stairs closes, the room breaks into applause and cheers. Someone tries to high-five me. I don't.

"You're all right, Simon," Poker Guy says.

"Kill 'em with kindness," Poker Girl chimes in.

I feel itchy. Like my skin doesn't fit. "Maybe you could lay off her a little?"

"Why?" Poker Girl demands. "She asks for it."

"No, she doesn't," I say. "Jesus, you're mocking her for being good at stuff."

"We don't care if she's good at stuff," Leah says, which is _the_ most hypocritical thing I've ever heard her say. "We care that she's Miss All That about it."

"She's not, though." I look around the room. Does nobody get this? "She didn't want to talk about the task force. Her _mom_ 's doing all the bragging."

"Well, she could tell Aunt Coral to cut it out," Poker Girl says, with less conviction.

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, how's that work for _you_?"

Leah stands. "Walk with me, Simon."

A wave of groans and giggles follows me as we leave the room. I expect Leah to head upstairs, but she leads me toward the weird storage space full of her dad's stuff that she and her mom can't bring themselves to sell or throw away yet. I pause outside the room, send an "i messed up" email to Blue, and then pocket my phone and prepare to meet my doom.

"What are you doing?" Leah demands when she's got me cornered against a wobbly metal bookshelf full of baseball trophies. "Why are you defending Winnie?"

"Because no one else is?" I remember at the last second to sound apologetic, not belligerent.

"I brought you here to support _me_ , Simon. Not take Winnie's side!"

"I've just been where she is, okay?" I shove my fingers under my glasses and rub my eyes. "I mean, obviously not, like, governor's task force levels, but you know how my parents are. I just want to live my life. And I bet Winnie does, too. Like, she wants to write poetry and play tennis and talk about being a suburban teenager or whatever. Her mom's the one making a big deal out of everything. It didn't seem right, piling on her because of it."

Leah's face melts. Like, not scary Nazis-at-the-end-of- _Raiders_ melts. More like she's thinking of puppies or anime characters or whatever. Then she leans forward, lips pursed, and— _oh shit she's trying to kiss me_!

I dodge, sliding out from between her and the bookcase. "What are you _doing_?" I want it to come out jokey, like, _hah hah you tried to kiss me that's silly_ , but my voice spikes at the end, so I sound hysterical.

"Nothing, apparently," Leah says. She crosses her arms, and her tone is pure venom. 

"No, not—I mean, uh—well, no one's watching, are they? I mean, shouldn't we save stuff like... uh, that, for when it'll make the biggest impression?"

Leah's stance relaxes slightly. I'm not out of the doghouse, but at least she's not killing me with her laser-eyes. "Whatever, Simon," she say. She turns and walks out of the storage room without looking to see if I'm following, which is good, because I'm not.

The best part of having a parent who's a therapist is that I've learned the exercises she teaches her patients to calm themselves down. After I run like five of them, I can breathe normally, but I don't feel ready to walk out of the room and face people.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. The signal's weak in here, but it's enough to see that I don't have a reply from Blue yet. I groan. Blue has his own problems to deal with, but a message from him would really help right now.

While I'm staring at my phone, it pings. For a wild second I hope it's Blue. But it's a text. I open the screen gingerly in case it's Leah asking me where the hell I am. But it's Abby, who's with her family in DC.

 **Abby:** _so ur making leah hang in for all 8 chapters_  
**Abby:** _well played spier. didn't kno u had it in u_

I stare at the screen until it turns off, but it doesn't make any more sense. Play what? Eight chapters of what? Abby's read way more books than I have; is this a reference I don't get?

Usually I would go to Leah on stuff like this, but since Abby's text is _about_ Leah, that seems like a bad idea. I screenshot the texts, gray out anything that would identify me or Abby, and forward them to Blue with a note admitting that I have no idea what this means. I stare at my phone until Poker Guy bangs on the door and tells me to get my ass upstairs and help set the table.

*

Ms. Keane puts me on last-minute food prep, because I’m one of the few people here who knows how to be a sous chef. Also, Leah has become the queen of the table-wranglers, figuring out how to fit in enough seating for all these people, so I was maybe a little enthusiastic about volunteering to help in a different room.

Leah and I have to sit next to each other at the table, of freaking course, because even I know it’s weird for a couple not to want to sit together. For her sake I hope it’s not obvious how super-tense and weird things are between us. For my own sake, I kinda don’t care.

One time, my family went on this big road trip. Mom checked this out this book on tape for us to listen to in the car. Only no one noticed that one of the tapes was missing, so we listened to everything we had and then spent the rest of the drive saying, “I feel like we missed something.” I totally feel like that now.

“Simon,” Aunt Coral says during seconds, “Jessica tells me you’re an actor.”

You would _really_ have to stretch the definition of “actor” to fit me into it. But Ms. Keane gives me an embarrassingly wide grin and nods like crazy. Leah’s look clearly says _do **not** mess this up for me, Spier_. I swallow my mouthful of sweet potatoes and say, “Yeah, that’s right.”

Leah takes my hand—on top of the table, where everyone can see. "He's really good," she says, her voice just shy of too doting to be believable.

I brace for the inevitable follow-up question about recent roles. Maybe I'll claim I played Fagin in _Oliver!_ , to make myself seem more impressive. It's not like Aunt Coral would hunt down a program.

But, no, I forgot that Aunt Coral has a one-track mind, and that track is _not_ me. She doesn't care about my acting experience. She cares that it gives her an in to talk about her favorite subject. "Winnie was interested in theater for a while, weren't you, dear?" she says. Across the table, Winnie shrugs. "She was considering auditioning for _You Can't Take It With You_ with the Atlanta Civic Theatre, but it would have interfered with her more important pursuits—like the Governor's Task Force. Oh! Have I mentioned that Winnie's on the Governor's Task Force on Rural and Suburban Youth?"

 _Only about fifteen times_.

Winnie rips a croissant apart with vicious glee. "I did audition," she says. She shoves half the croissant into her mouth. She has awful table manners. It's kind of the best. "Didn't get cast."

Aunt Coral bristles. Aunt Coral's bristles have bristles. " _Winnie!"_ she hisses.

Winnie shrugs. "Well, I didn't. I did my best, but other people were better, so I didn't get cast. I don't see why I should be ashamed of that."

I want to cheer. From the way Leah's half-bouncing in her chair, she feels the same. Aunt Coral immediately turns to the guy next to her, whose name appears to be Murray. She starts loudly asking him about his kids, who turn out to be Poker Guy and Poker Girl, whose actual names turn out to be Braylee and Mickinzie. It's like her precious Winnie isn't there anymore. Leah and I look at each other, eyebrows raised. I can tell Leah's coming around to my way of thinking: maybe being Winnie isn't so great.

After dinner, everyone goes into the living room to watch football and "make room for pie," which sounds gross the way Murray says it. I sit next to Leah and obligingly throw my arm around her shoulders when she snuggles in almost aggressively. I try to pay attention to the game, but I've never understood football—the rules _or_ the appeal.

At some point during the... third inning? second round? my phone buzzes. I glance at it out of habit. My heart leaps when I see it's an email from Blue. And then another. And another. And another. My stomach sinks. Blue never multimessages.

I mutter a half-assed apology and leap to my feet. I need to be alone. Where the hell can I be alone in a house with close to thirty people in it? I dash up the stairs to Leah's room. I hope my status as her fake boyfriend and real best friend will make it not weird to sneak away to her bedroom in the middle of Thanksgiving.

The three most recent emails from Blue are links, which is weird. He prefers thoughtful, heartfelt words to "look at this aDorAbLE oTtEr!" I leave those for later and find the first email.

**FROM:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**TO:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Nov 28 at 6:45 PM  
**SUBJECT:** Re: All 8 Chapters?

_Jacques,_

_I think "all 8 chapters" refers to old romance novels. Somebody had this formula that the couple had to part, by choice or cruel fate, seven eighths of the way through, so the audience would **really** cheer for their happily ever after in the last eighth. Obviously that wasn't always eight chapters, because stories come in different lengths, but I think that's what your friend means._

_Have you read any fake dating stories? You should. And then you should sit down with FG and have a serious conversation about her intentions for this plan._

_Good luck._

_-Blue_

By the time I get to the sign-off, I feel queasy. I got pretty into fanfic when I fell in love with Harry Potter (which was as much about my crush on Daniel Radcliffe as it was about loving the movies or the books. Though I do). And Leah may have written a fake dating story for one of the mangas she likes. If she did, I read it, because I'm a good friend like that. But it's been a while since I've read _any_ fanfic. What's Blue trying to tell me that I can't remember? With shaky fingers, I move on to the next message. And then the next. Then the next.

They're links to stories on AO3. One's Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, one Kirk and Spock, and the last one—oh, hey! The last one is Harry and Draco. But they're each at least thirty thousand words. The Kirk and Spock one is sixty thousand! I don't have that much time before someone (by which I mean Leah) comes looking for me. I open the links and find the end of each story. 

OH GOD BRAIN BLEACH IT HURTS MY **SOUL**

I jab the X on all three tabs like they're literally on fire. The stories close, but I can't unsee what I've seen.

Warning bells clang in my head, but I reopen one of the stories and click the link for the "Fake/Pretend Relationship" tag. More than _sixteen thousand_ results. Even limiting it to the finished ones and ones in English leaves eleven thousand.

I click at random and go to the end of each one, _hoping_. But not a single one ends with the fake couple or moreple high-fiving, congratulating each other on pulling one over on the jealous ex or getting their parents off their backs about dating, and going their separate ways. _Every single one_ ends with a mutual confession of romantic feelings and a searing kiss. Or more.

The next thing I know, someone's knocking on Leah's open bedroom door and I'm just sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, my phone about to tumble out of my hand.

"Si?" Leah says. "You disappeared. Everyone's wondering where you went." There's like a thousand people downstairs. _Everyone_ means Leah and her mom. "You look pale. You okay?"

I clutch my phone and wave it at her. "Is... is this what you're hoping for?" I ask, and my voice comes out scratchy, like I haven't used it all day.

"What—" She shakes her head. "Si, I can't—"

Oh, right. She can't see my phone. I hand it to her warily. On the screen, the fake-couple-turned-real-couple space pirates laugh joyfully as they run, hand-in-hand, away from their successful space station robbery.

Leah squints at the screen. "Do I want us to... rob a space station?"

I reach up and click the back arrow. The Fake/Pretend Relationship screen loads in all its terrifying glory. "They all end with the fake couple becoming real, Leah! Was that your plan?"

Leah tries to laugh it off, but it's a high, thready, weak version of her real laugh. "What, like it'd be the worst thing?"

Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.

I try to get words out— _any_ words—but they won't come. In the time that takes, I watch Leah's expression crack. And then watch her plaster over those cracks with something harder than stone. "Okay. I get it," she says.

"You _don't_ —"

Leah stands and drops my phone in my lap. "I've been into you forever, Simon," she says. It's so matter-of-fact, like she isn't upending everything I knew about our relationship. "I thought you knew that. I thought maybe you felt the same way." She laughs again, that same awful sound. "I obviously thought wrong." She heads for the door.

I think fast. I don't owe her this. If and when I choose to come out, it's _my_ choice. I can tell or not tell anyone I want.

But this is _Leah._ My best friend. The person who means more to me than anyone but my parents. Even Blue's not at Leah's level yet. And she takes a lot of shit about her body, and whether she's "attractive enough" for anyone to date. Mostly she doesn't care; she says her life's more than whether some high school boy will date her. But I know it hurts her, anyway, people feeling like they have that right to judge her body. I want to make sure she knows that our not dating doesn't have anything to do with _her_.

"Leah, I'm gay," I blurt. _Way to go, Spier. Very graceful_.

Leah looks _more_ pissed. "Crap, Si. You're not into me. I get it. You don't have to pretend to be gay to—"

"Leah." I stand up. Cross the few steps to her. Take her by the shoulders. "I'm gay."

She stares at me. Her eyes widen. "Shit. You're serious."

I laugh. "I really am."

This long, awful silence falls on us. Then she screeches, "Oh my _god_! Simon! Tell me everything! How long have you known? Who else knows? Oh my god, did you write the creeksecrets post? Simon! _Is there a boy_?"

I laugh. I can't help it. And I don't owe her this, either, but her giddy enthusiasm is kind of infectious. "Wow. Okay, uh... a couple years ago; two other people kinda; no; sort of."

She sorts that out and then launches herself at me. We end up in a squirming heap on the bed, all laughter and intentionally thrown elbows until we untangle ourselves.

The story pours out of me. Figuring out I'm gay, reading the creeksecrets post, reaching out to Blue, emailing with Blue, slowly falling for Blue. When I say it out loud, I see I'm in way deeper than I'd realized.

"Wow," Leah says when I'm done. She swats my arm. "Simon Spier, secret romantic. Who would've guessed."

I shrug, a little embarrassed to have it called out.

She laughs. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."

"Thanks, Leah," I say sincerely.

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye. "So... you really were just doing this to be nice to me, huh?"

I roll my eyes. " _Yes._ Sorry I didn't know that 'please be my fake boyfriend' is secret code for 'we want to date each other but are too chicken to say anything. Let's get together in the stupidest way imaginable.'"

"It's not—" I look at her, and she sighs. "Yeah, okay, it's dumb." Leah bites her lip and looks at the ceiling. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I gesture around the room in a way I hope shows her what a weird question that is.

She grins. "I'm bi."

I try to remember the things you're supposed to say when someone comes out to you. Then I try to imagine what I hope other people will say to me when I start coming out more. Before I can say anything, I hear a flurry outside the door, and Winnie bursts into the room. "You're bi? Oh my god, me too!"

Leah blinks at her. " _What_?"

They reach out at the same time and grab each other's hands. They shriek and start bouncing up and down like schoolkids. It's hilarious and weird and completely unlike Leah as I know her. I guess she and Winnie really have known each other forever.

They start talking over each other really fast. I can barely keep up.

"My mom knows, but nobody else—I mean so you can't—"

"Who would I—"

"Your mom—"

"Like I would _ever_."

Leah's face falls. "She doesn't know, huh? About you?"

Winnie scoffs. "Please. Can you imagine Coral's reaction to her perfect daughter coming out?"

"Yeah," Leah says, down for a second. "Hey, my mom's been great, so... if you need an adult?"

"Thanks," Winnie says, "I might." She lets go of Leah's hands. "So, as awesome as it is that we're here and queer, Aunt Jess sent me up here to tell you that it's dessert time, and that if you don't get your butts downstairs, people will think Simon's corrupting your virtue."

My face flames red, and I cover it with my hands. Leah's cackling isn't helping at all. She pulls my hands away from my face. "Come on, Si," she says. "Pie time!" Winnie's bouncing at the door.

I pause and look at Leah. "We good?"

Leah sighs and then nods. "Yeah, we're good. It's not your fault I was fake-dating you under false pretenses."

"Thanks. And it's not your fault you wanted a piece of this."

Leah swats at me, but I dodge easily. We're both laughing. For a split second, I consider confessing about Martin and the blackmail. I mean, Leah and Winnie are super smart. They could help me figure it out, right?

Oh, but we're having a _good_ moment. I don't want to ruin that, do I?

"Yeah, why _are_ you guys pretending to be dating?" Winnie asks, taking away my chance. "I mean, not that watching my mom spit nails isn't entertaining enough."

Leah laughs as she and Winnie move toward the door. "Honestly, that's pretty much it," she says. Winnie laughs so hard I worry she'll choke.

"You guys go on," I say. "I'll be right behind you."

"All right, Corruptor," Leah sing-songs.

"But don't wait too long, or people will think you're..." Winnie's voice trails off, and she makes a crude gesture, and she and Leah snort their way out the door.

I'm redder than a tomato again, but I wave them off and pull out my phone. 

**FROM:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**TO:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Nov 28 at 7:20 PM  
**SUBJECT:** Re: All 8 Chapters?

_You were right as usual, Blue. Fake Girlfriend was hoping to become Real Girlfriend. Things got gross here for a minute, but we've worked it out._

_The best part: I came out to her! It was scary, but it turned out well. I **love** talking to you, but now someone **here** , in the real world, knows, and I can be my whole self around her. And that's freaking incredible._

_-Love, Jacques_

My finger moves toward the send button, but then I feel a rush of courage. If I can tell Leah and her overachieving cousin that I'm gay, I can tell Blue... anything. I start typing again.

_PS: I don't know if it's possible to fall in love over email, but if it is, I'm halfway there with you. I want to meet you. Soon. Even if you don't feel the same way, just knowing you would be freaking amazing. Shady Creek doesn't have many gay kids (although maybe more than we think?). It would be cool if more of us knew each other._

I hit send.

I figure Blue is elbow-deep in pie and relatives, so I don't expect to hear from him soon. I shove my phone in my back pocket and rush to catch up with Leah and Winnie. They're waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, and it strikes me that this is how they more naturally look: like friends—like family—not rivals.

I'm almost to the bottom of the stairs when my phone buzzes. I pull it out, confused. It's an email from Blue.

I don't what my face does, but Leah whispers, "Ooh, is that an email from your _boyfriend_?" and Winnie makes kissy-faces at me. My face flames _again_. They're acting like twelve-year-olds, but it's... fun, getting teased about boys like it's no big deal.

I lean against the wall and open the message.

**FROM:** bluegreen118@gmail.com  
**TO:** hourtohour.notetonote@gmail.com  
**DATE:** Nov 28 at 7:22 PM  
**SUBJECT:** Re: All 8 Chapters?

_Jacques,_

_I'll write more later. For now: I want to meet you, too. I'm not ready yet. But I will be, someday. Please be patient, because I'm more than half in love with you, too._

_Love, Blue_

I clutch my phone to my chest. I'm smiling so wide it hurts.

Leah raises an eyebrow. "Good email?"

"The best." Blue wants to meet someday! And even though I didn't realize what story I was in, the eighth chapter has turned out really well. I put my phone back in my pocket and offer an arm to each of them. "Let's go get pie."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Swing by [my tumblr](https://hugealienpie.tumblr.com/), if you've a mind to.


End file.
